As promised: a recap of our New Years celebration in Dakar.
Given that I was still stuck on that blasted couch, the New Year’s Eve dance party that we’d had planned…didn’t really pan out. [Though Michelle and I DID invent some wildly impressive upper-body moves that you’ll probably be seeing on MTV in the near future.] Midnight found my team and I on the rooftop of our apartment building surveying the panoramic of fireworks displays illuminating Dakar’s skyline. I love fireworks [cannot emphasize that one enough]-and it was breathtaking. Breathtaking, that is, until wayward flames from fireworks-gone-wild fell into trees and buildings, and actual fires erupted all over the city. We watched in fascinated horror as a palm tree burned clear to the ground an uncomfortably close distance from my bedroom window. At one point, a rather panicked Michelle suggested that we call “ les pompiers” [firemen]-…and it was at that moment that we came to several rather startling realizations:
- We’re not sure if there even ARE pompiers in Dakar.
- If said pompiers do in fact exist, we certainly don’t have the foggiest idea how to get a hold of them.
- If by some miracle the stars aligned and there were pompiers and we did get a hold of them, …we’re still in Senegal. Senegal, where everything takes approximately 83 times longer than it ought to. Thus, by the time said pompiers arrived, the entire city would be a smoldering ash heap. Truly, only WE can prevent forest fires.
Dakar is not exactly crisis-friendly.
I ventured out into the great wide world again yesterday-for the second time in what feels like a month of Sundays. [Unless we’re counting the excursions made on my “No Doctor Left Behind” tour. And everybody knows that those are no fun.]
The warden Christy finally took pity on me and let me out of the house. Granted, it may have had a little something to do with my repeated threats of flying to Sea World for the express purpose of throwing myself into the shark tank if I spent so much as another second in my living room. [In my defense, the walls were closing in, and I’d started having detailed discussions with one of the roaches currently residing in the kitchen regarding the current political upheaval in Korea. That is one opinionated little bug.] Yes, it’s official: all of this bed rest nonsense has robbed me of the few remnants of sanity I had left.
After listening to Christy lecture me extensively on the perils of “over-doing it”, I was free. Free! I
ran hobbled away to the beach and sat on the most beautiful cliff in Dakar [my favorite place in Senegal] and watched the waves crash
on the rocks for about an hour and a half, at which point my pansy-little-legs gave up on me and sent me straight back to the couch from whence I’d come. [The couch that I am rapidly becoming progressively more concerned is starting to self-graft to my epidermis. Give it a couple more days and I may need to be pried off with a spatula.]
It was glorious. Glorious, that is, until I came home and discovered that Dayton had taken advantage of my absence and had sneakily done away with Charlie Brown Mohammad Jose.
Take-down-Christmas-decorations-day is the most depressing day of the entire year, I think.
If it were up to me, I’d keep the full regalia of Christmas decorations up in all of their glory until…well, at least Valentine’s day, anyways. [I have a serious aversion to all things heart-shaped. Heart-shaped decorations make me want to gouge my eyes out with a hot poker.]
In an effort to cope with my post-Christmas anguish, I turned to chocolate. I recently read the results of a study that stated that for mild to moderate depression, eating .4 oz of dark chocolate every day more successfully regulates serotonin levels than many serotonin-inhibiting medications. I’m not depressed, but I went ahead and inhaled a pound and a half just to be on the safe side.
A girl can never be too careful.